A Secret Life

“To see you, Joan.” He looked completely serious.

But that was ridiculous. She wasn’t a movie star. Nobody was coming to Indigo to see her.

Her problem was her parents and the bondage scene. Her pen slipped again. And these stupid invitations she kept ruining.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE WAS NO WAY in hell Anthony was letting Joan run around town to deliver tea invitations. She had to stay inside the house until they gauged the press’s reaction to her identity. Not that he wouldn’t make use of reporters. He just wanted to control the time and place.

“I’ll deliver them for you,” he said, reaching for the neat stack of envelopes in her hand. “Just give me the addresses.” He wasn’t wild about leaving her here alone, but it was the lesser of two evils.

She snapped them out of his reach and gestured to her front window. “Do you see a crowd forming out there? Do you?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re not in town.”

Joan shook her head. “I’m going upstairs to change now. Then I’m delivering my invitations personally.”

“Denial’s not going to help,” he told her.

“Neither is panic.”

“I’m not panicking.” He was taking logical, reasonable steps to ensure her safety and to keep control of the story. The last thing in the world he needed was for her to be accosted by an aggressive reporter or a local resident looking to make a few thousand dollars from the National Inquisitor.

“Getting changed now,” she taunted over her shoulder as she headed for the staircase to the second floor.

“Barring the door now,” he called back.

“You can’t keep me prisoner.” Her springy footsteps sounded on the hardwood steps.

“Watch me try.”

He was glad she wasn’t intimidated by the press. It showed self-confidence and spirit. Maybe she’d even agree to an interview.

He liked that idea. If they picked the right host and the right network, they could get out in front of this. Well- executed publicity would have a huge impact on sales. Pellegrin was already planning a second print run. There was a chance they could parlay it into a third and a fourth.

He pulled out his BlackBerry and did a quick check of the online bookstores. While he scrolled through some fine-looking numbers, there was a rap on the door.

Glancing at the staircase to make sure there was no sign of Joan, he tucked the BlackBerry into his pocket and headed for the small foyer.

He opened the door to a haughty blond woman wearing a pressed, pink linen suit, dangling earrings and an impressive diamond necklace against a perfect tan.

“Can I help you?” he asked, taking in her expensively streaked hair and precise makeup.

“Who are you?” she asked, tipping her chin and perusing him with blue eyes that catalogued, assessed, then dismissed.

“None of your business,” he told her.

“Where’s Joan?”

“Also none of your business.”

She definitely wasn’t a reporter, and he’d bet she wasn’t local. A fan? Interesting demographic.

“Do I have to call the police?” she asked.

That surprised him. “Be my guest.”

She didn’t reach for a cell phone, so he was pretty sure it was a bluff.

“Joan?” she called into the cottage.

Anthony tried to push the door shut, but the woman thrust her hip inside, and he didn’t have it in him to hurt her. He blocked the path with his body instead.

“Joan?” the woman called again. “You all right?”

Joan’s quick footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Heather?”

“It’s me,” the woman called, shifting forward. “Who is this imbecile?”

“Anthony?” Joan rushed toward them. “What are you doing?”

“You know her?” he asked Joan.

“Of course I know her. She’s my sister.”

Anthony pulled back. “Your sister?”

The woman glared at him as if he was a blob of sidewalk gum. “Yes. I’m her sister.”

Perfect. He supposed when a day took a downhill slide, it just kept right on going.

Heather brushed the front of her suit and straightened her sleeves, as if he’d somehow tainted her.

“This is Anthony Verdun,” said Joan.

“You have a boyfriend?” Heather gave him another once-over, apparently coming to much the same conclusion as last time about his worth as a human being.

“He’s my agent,” said Joan.

“Like a lawyer?”

Anthony closed the door behind Heather, checking through the window to make sure nobody else was lurking in the hydrangeas.

“He is a lawyer. But he’s a literary agent. He sells my books.”

Heather looked him up and down. “So he’s the one.”

“Heather.”

“I knew it’d be someone shady.”

Anthony scoffed.

The woman kept her attention on Joan and waved her hand in the air. “How did he co-opt you into this nonsense?”

Joan’s lips quirked into a half smile. “It’s like a cult. He fed me bonbons and made me chant.”

Anthony gave Joan points for her spunk, but Heather was starting to annoy him. “Did you forget the part where you say, ‘Congratulations, Joan’?”

Heather arched a sculpted brow. “Congratulations? Puh-leeze.”

“Your sister’s about to hit a bestseller list.”

“For pulp fiction.”

Joan flinched, and Anthony clenched his jaw. He didn’t care who Heather was, he wasn’t about to stand here and let her insult his client. If she were a man, he’d have her up against the wall for that.

Instead, he jerked open the door. “I think you should leave now.”

Heather’s jaw worked in silence for a moment.

“I mean it,” said Anthony.

“Why, you bloodsucking little upstart.”

“Stop,” begged Joan, putting her fingertips against her temples. “I don’t have time for this.”

“I should think not,” Heather huffed.

“I have tea invitations,” said Joan.

“You are not leaving this house,” said Anthony, snapping the door closed again.

Heather turned her attention back to Joan. “Just who the hell does he think he is?”

“My jailer, apparently,” said Joan.

“I’m the guy who’s turning this thing around.”

Heather didn’t even glance his way. “You want me to call the police? I could get Daddy-”

“Nobody’s calling the police,” said Joan. “Anthony’s okay.”

Okay? Well, wasn’t that just…adequate.